Renewal
by Eogrus
Summary: Mr. Pickles being spiritually fulfilled


The sun rose, the sun set. The Spring Equinox had come and gone, unnoticed by the town. Mr. Pickles did notice it, however, as did his entourage, raising banners in the ancient ruins, flaid skin waving in a windless air. The screams of the damned echoed throughout the stony halls, their blood joining the stygian river that cross the underground city. As it passed through the earth, iron was deposited, and now new plants could grow, basked in the sunlight shining even in the depths.

Mr. Pickles admittedly had little interest in the cycles of nature and certainly almost none in the holistic aspects of the faith that was once practised in that city. He, however, could appreciate the poetry in life rising from death, and of the necessity of sacrifice. Killing for him was mostly an expression of his bloodlust and a form to enact justice, but the broader symbolic range of the act wasn't lost on him. He could envision the repetition of a pattern, yet with something different being added to the variables.

For a moment, he felt renewed.

The festivities could only last for so long, before his owner noticed he was missing. Mr Pickles however did what he could. He was a good boy after all, and good boys make sure that their people's traditions aren't lost.

Plus, it was just plain fun.

As the sun reached its position and its light turned the dark underworld into a blinding gold, seven victims were laid on an obsidian altar. They whimpered a strange cacophony of inhuman sounds, as donkey heads had been grafted unto their faces, the stitching point a small metallic depression on which pus and other fluids began to pool. They were former pro-lifer terrorists, that Mr. Pickles captured 3 days beforehand and had surgically experimented on for the purposes of this ritual. Some of them begged God to save them, others threw insults with various degrees of logical coherence, others still switched sides entirely and wanted Mr. Pickles' mercy.

An eagle faced priest addressed the masses, reading from "Blethnagurothatar, 6:34", and all, from the slaves to the archons, sang in a harmonious choir, so unlike the victims' discordant sobbing. It was a beautiful melody to Mr. Pickles' canine ears, capable of hearing in infrasounds and picking up nuances no human could get, and he felt proud. He had outdone himself this year, and everyone was feeling this as meaningfully as he was. He took his place in his throne, voicing the last verses of the litany in a voice like colliding continents, as primordial and unambiguous as it could be.

Another priest approached him submissively, though Mr. Pickles could tell that they were ecstatic. A silver sheath was opened, revealing an ivory dildo. It was carved from the tusk of a mastodon, the "mastodontoctony" itself engraved in a series of left-to-right pictures, and it was the oldest artifact and most sacred artifact to the civilisation that created Mr. Pickles. The dog reached for it, reading the small script bordering the edges of the individual pictures, and swiftly inserted it on the closest victim's rectum. He penetrated fast until the colon dislodged and the intestines were grinded into a bloody paste, which then flowed forth through rifts in the altar. The heavier elements of the bloody substance sank, being deposited in the altar itself and becoming part of it, while the blood and lighter fluids flowed freely, being channeled by pipes until they reached the river. Mr. Pickles dove deeper and faster, until all internal organs and parts of the rib cage left the torso, rendering it empty.

After repeating the process seven times, the now empty corpses were beheaded. The torsos were embalmed in salt and olive oil, then filled with bleached faeces and deposited in black and gold sarcophagi, while the heads were distributed evenly and eaten. Mr. Pickles himself got the final victim, plunging the dildo within it, then castrating it with his bare paws, squishing the gonads and drinking their blood and reproductive fluids like lemon juice. He then inserted his penis on the emptied, bloody hole, fucking it slowly and methodically, feeling the earth beneath his paws and the sky above.

As his penile tissues were stimulated, he began to pray again, each breath full of pleasure. He recited the entirety of "The Revelation of Nlkadulargaroth", inserting himself in the role of the moon god courting the earth, then the sun. This text was particularly meaningful to him, as he was reading it when he me Tommy, and he couldn't help but cry a little. The victim didn't notice this, being half-dead and screaming at that point, which frustrated him slightly because he was baring his fucking soul, but nonetheless he carried it out, even delaying his orgasm.

Slowly but surely, his cock enlarged, the knot tearing apart the already bloody hole as it passed, and he had to conclude. He shot his load into the still living victim and stayed there for a while, the tip of his penis brushing against the pelvis. Moaning, Mr. Pickles said the three sacred words, then withdraw, blood, cum and necrotic fluid covering his penis. As he licked it off, the corpse was quartered and roasted under sunlight magnifying glasses, the head and liver put on a black and red plate just for him. Caramelized prickles were put on it, a slight deviation to suit his tastes.

Otherwise, however, everything proceeded as it had for thousands of years up to that point.

Mr. Pickles enjoyed only a few bites when he heard Tommy call him. Still, he felt relaxed as he emerged from the doghouse, like the sun rising from the underworld, into a brand new day. 


End file.
